Hon Hon Baguette Eiffel Tower
by Angeliz
Summary: [Welcome to Night Vale] It happens every third Wednesday in June. Unfortunately, Cecil does not speak French.


It happens every third Wednesday in June, but, unfortunately—this being Carlos' first _real_ June in Night Vale—no one is quite aware of it yet. So it comes as some surprise when Cecil rolls over in the bleary, pre-dawn hours of sleep to the cherry-glow of a cigarette in the darkness.

His nose twitches. He coughs. "Carlos?"

An affirmative hum drifts through the smoke, although it tilts toward the unfamiliar. Uncertain, Cecil props himself up, digging the heel of his hand into his eye. "Carlos, that _is_ you, right?"

"Ben oui. Désolé, je t'ai réveillé?"

The voice is clearly Carlos' this time, but Cecil frowns, dropping his hand to the blankets. As his eyes adjust, a faint silhouette blurs into being. Carlos' curls are recognizable but a little warped, mashed down against his scalp by something sort of frisbee-shaped. "Are you smoking? You don't smoke."

Carlos turns, disrupting his outline. "Tu racontes quoi, cheri?"

Something finally clicks. "Are you…why are…are you speaking French?"

"Je ne parle pas français, Cécil."

"What? …It's Cecil."

"J'ai dit ça. Cécil."

"_Cecil,_" Cecil insists, because if nothing else, he knows his own name. "Carlos, are you feeling all right? Did you forget to salt the agave?"

Carlos chuckles and flicks his cigarette, spraying ashes through the darkness. Cecil will have to vacuum in the morning, or the Faceless Old Woman will have a coronary. "Dors, Cécil. Je te comprends pas."

"I think I'm dreaming," Cecil decides. He's decaffeinated and therefore roundly exhausted, which makes the French seem twice as inscrutable. Better to blame his brain and be done with it. "Éclair noel le Notre Dame to you, too."

Carlos blows a series of smoke rings, a talent he's never before displayed. "Ce que vous dites. Bonne nuit, mon amour."

Cecil coughs and rolls over. He dreams of Glade Plug-Ins.

...

The sun pops up about twelve minutes early, according to Carlos' meticulous wall chart. Cecil groans and literally rolls out of bed, hitting the floor in a tangle of sheets. The smell of coffee wafts from the kitchen, which seems exceptionally far away, even though it's neither August nor Tuesday. Cecil groans again; he's going to die. One of his tentacles flops pathetically.

"Carloooos," he whines, in a voice that is tragically unfit for radio. "I think the kitchen moved again."

Carlos gives a sleepy, attractive sigh, but he merely rustles the blankets and rolls over. Cecil doubts he'll be out of bed before ten, and even that might be pushing his luck. Help is not forthcoming on the coffee front. Why don't they just keep the damn thing in the bedroom?

Cecil huffs and begins to extract himself from the sheets.

When he finally breaks free and locates his glasses, he is pained to discover that the kitchen _has_ moved, and the coffeepot no longer occupies their dimension. It burbles at him from just beyond, so close that the steam fogs against Cecil's lenses. He spends a good minute trying to coax it back over, going so far as to offer it treats—blueberries, cat kibble, and a small sliver of his soul—but it can't be budged. Time for Plan B.

Trudging back toward their room, Cecil finds that he has no adequate plan for rousing Carlos. His brain is stuck in standby mode, where it will remain until caffeine hits his bloodstream. Carlos—brilliant Carlos—has done tests on the subject; Cecil is literally impaired without coffee. It's purely science. And slightly unsafe.

"Carlooooos," Cecil whines again, dropping onto the lump of blankets that corresponds to his scientist's shape. "Transdimensional coffeepot. Going to die. Starbucks?"

"Mm," says Carlos into his pillow.

"Pleeease? I can't go alone! The law went into effect last month."

"Mrghle."

" I'll get you a chai!"

"Nyrgh," Carlos says, then, "Mmmrfl nrfh pantalon."

Cecil's brain can't quite register the words—if there are any—but the tone sounds promising, so he rolls off of Carlos with a happy sound. Briefly, he contemplates clothes, but the task seems somewhat daunting at this hour. And it's not like his pajamas are obscene.

Not today, anyway.

"I'll be in the car!"

...

Things remain hazy until the first latte kicks in. When he finally perks up to find a venti extra-hot blueberry-vanilla in his hand, Cecil gives a relieved little sigh, beaming across the table at his boyfriend. "Good morning, Carlos! You saved my life."

Carlos smiles over his cup. "Tu as une dépendance. Salut, Cécil."

Beaming, Cecil twines their fingers. "You let me go to Starbucks in my pajamas."

"Tu es chanceux que je suis réveillé avant le midi."

Cecil gulps his coffee; more brain-circuits connect. A few major details finally click. "Wait, I'm awake. Why are you speaking French?"

Carlos shoots him a puzzled look. "Qu'est-ce que tu racontes, Cécil?"

"It's Cecil. You…is that a beret?"

"Je le porte toujours." Carlos touches his hair. "Tu veux un autre café, mon amour?"

Cecil sets down his cup; it gives a hollow _thunk_ against the table. One of his tentacles grabs his wallet, dodging tables to twist toward the front counter. Normally, the rest of his body would follow, but there are a few things that need sorted out, first. Most important, perhaps: "Did you grow a _moustache_?"

"…Il y a longtemps. Tu te sens bien?" Carlos presses his fingers to Cecil's forehead, smoothing them past the fringe of hair. "Tu n'as pas de fièvre."

"Stop that!" Cecil swats his hand. He can't afford a perfect-Carlos-fugue. "I can't speak French. I studied Spanish and Modified Sumerian in school."

"Je parle anglais!"

"Baguette Eiffel Tower!"

Bewildered, Carlos leans back in his chair, a lit cigarette between his fingers like magic. Smoke drifts around their table like an incorporeal eel, earning them several simultaneous glares from the barista. The beret looks annoyingly good on his head. "C'est un effet de Night Vale?"

His inflection suggests he's expecting an answer. Cecil practically vibrates frustration. "Carlos _I do not speak French!_"

"Ce n'est pas français!"

" Laissez-faire!"

"Cécil, c'est quoi ça?"

"Moulin Rouge!"

"Tout le monde regardait!"

" Je ne sais quoi!"

"Ce n'est pas français!"

"Soupe du jour, déjà vu!"

The barista roars until Starbucks shivers, its foundations whining beneath their feet. Cecil's tentacle nabs his coffee and retreats as the pastry case scuttles for cover.

Somewhere in the midst of the commotion, a plain, bloodstained envelope finds its way atop Carlos' half-eaten croissant.

The entire building goes perfectly quiet, easing back into cautious chatter only after the barista takes a deep breath and returns to cleaning the espresso machine. "I think that's for you," Cecil says, an abashed violet blush creeping over his cheekbones. Unable to meet Carlos' eyes, he opts instead to stare at the envelope, toying with his second coffee. "I'm sorry for yelling. I'm still kind of groggy. And I wasn't expecting to not be able to talk to you."

"C'est pas grave," says Carlos. He touches a bloodless corner of the envelope, an absent, thoughtful brush of his fingertips. "Je suis désolé si… Je parle français?"

"You should probably open that before it explodes."

Frowning, Carlos tears through the flap. An adorable crease nestles between his eyebrows; Cecil studies it as he sips his coffee. It's a perfect addition to Carlos' thoughtful-face, peeking over the rim of his glasses and out from behind a few strands of perfect hair.

"Huh," says Carlos.

"What?" says Cecil.

Carlos pushes the sheet of paper toward him.

**Reminder:**

**In order to ensure ease of surveillance, citizens are required to limit all communication to municipally-approved languages and sigils. If you are unable to conform to these requirements due to food allergy, natural disaster, immigration status, or previously undiscovered bacterium, please arrange to fill out the required paperwork at the earliest possible convenience.**

**Thank you for your cooperation.**

Cecil remains silent for a long moment, his fingers tapping against the paper. Carlos stares resolutely at his croissant. Cigarette smoke drifts between them, unperturbed, forming geometric shapes around their heads.

Cecil does not say _I told you so._

He will say it later.

On the radio.

For now, Cecil merely adjusts the beret, finding the angle that best suits Carlos' head. "Don't worry," he says, finding greater sympathy now that his boyfriend is aware of the situation. His confused-expression is thoroughly charming. "I have the same problem with Armenian in early January."

Carlos groans, his face in his hands. His accent is muffled. "J'ai hâte."


End file.
